Page 19 of Wicked Sinner
"Rememberwhen we were sixteen and you thought you might be pregnant?" Jenny says suddenly, and I nearly choke on my spaghetti.
"What?" I manage to get out, my voice higher than usual.
"You were sort of dating that guy… what was his name? Jake something. And you were convinced you were pregnant because you were three days late." She laughs, shaking her head. "You were so freaked out, but you were too embarrassed to buy a test. So I did it for you."
"I remember," I say quietly, my heart hammering in my chest. I remember that day vividly—the panic, the fear, the relief when the test came back negative. I remember promising myself I'd never be that careless again.
"You were so paranoid," Jenny continues, oblivious to my discomfort. "You made me go to three different drugstores so no one would recognize us. And then you made me wait outside the bathroom while you took the test."
"It was negative," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah, but you were so convinced it would be positive. You kept saying 'what if, what if, what if' until I wanted to shake you."She takes another bite of pasta, still smiling at the memory. "You were so relieved when it was negative that you cried for like an hour."
"I wasn't ready to be a mother. And my dad would have been so disappointed. I was scared." My voice sounds strange even to my own ears. Weirdly defensive.
"You were sixteen. Of course you weren't ready." She pauses, studying my face. "Are you worried about that because of… what was his name? The guy from a few weeks ago?"
Caesar.Just hearing her reference him makes my chest tight. I've been trying not to think about him, but it's impossible. He's there in my thoughts constantly, like a song I can't get out of my head. One that Iwantto get out of my head more than ever, now.
"His name was Caesar." I’m surprised by how easily his name falls from my lips. "And no, I'm not worried. I’m not thinking about him at all."
Another lie. I think about him all the time. I think about the way he looked at me, the way he touched me. I think about his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the way he filled me so completely that I thought I might die from the pleasure of it.
And I think about the way he left without a word, without asking for my number, without any way for me to get in touch with him. Not that I want to. Especially now that I’ve looked into who Caesar Genovese actually is.
"Are you sure? Because you got this look on your face when I mentioned him..."
"What look?" Now IknowI sound defensive, but I can’t help it.
"The same look you get when you talk about your dad. Like you're trying not to cry."
The comparison hits me like a physical blow. My father was the most important person in my life, the one who taughtme everything I know about cars and life, and standing up for myself. The idea that I might have that same expression when I think about a man I barely know, a man who used me and discarded me, makes me feel sick.
"I'm not going to cry," I say firmly. "He was just a guy, Jenny. A one-night stand. That's all."
"If you say so." She doesn't sound convinced, but she lets it drop, and we finish dinner in relative silence.
After she leaves, I clean up the dishes and try to ignore the way my hands shake as I wash the plates. I need to work. I need to get my hands dirty, focus on something concrete and fixable. Something that makes sense.
The garage is quiet when I open it up, the familiar smell of motor oil and metal greeting me like an old friend. I flip on the radio, tuning it to the classic rock station that my father always listened to, as usual, and make my way to the back bay where the Corvette sits waiting.
The 1967 Stingray is still a work in progress, but it's getting closer to completion. The engine is rebuilt, and most of the interior has been restored. It's going to be beautiful when it's finished—the kind of car that turns heads. It still needs bodywork and some of the inner guts worked on, but it’s approaching the point where I can see the finish line.
My father and I started this project together when I was twenty-four, about a year before he got sick. We'd work on it together in the evenings, him teaching me the finer points of restoration while we listened to his favorite music. Some of my best memories are of those nights—just the two of us, working side by side, talking about everything and nothing.
The car isn't just a restoration project—it's a connection to him, a way to keep his memory alive. Every time I work on it, I feel close to him again.
Tonight, though, even the familiar comfort of working on the Corvette can't quiet my racing thoughts. I'm supposed to be adjusting the carburetor, but my mind keeps wandering to places it shouldn't go.
"Stop it," I mutter to myself, tightening a bolt with more force than necessary. "Stop thinking about him. He's gone. He's not coming back."
I hate that a part of me wondered if he’d come back, before I stopped wanting him to. It was stupid and weak, and I hate it even more now, knowing what I know. Men like Caesar Genovese don't come back for women like me. They take what they want and move on to the next conquest, the next challenge, the next woman who catches their eye.
I'm nobody to him. Just another notch on his bedpost, another story to tell his friends about the small-town mechanic who was naive enough to fall for his charm. Who devoured him like she’d never get another chance to be with a man like him.
That night, I felt like we were equals in desire—the only thing we could ever be equal in. But that feeling has slipped in the weeks that passed, replaced by something else.
The radio is playing "Dream On" by Aerosmith when I see the headlights sweeping across the garage doors. I freeze, my wrench suspended in mid-air, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest.
